


Everlasting

by Zelos



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 Things, Cryostasis, Friendship, Gen, Immortality, Love, Loyalty, M/M, can be gen or slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Put me on ice,” Bucky demands.</p><p>Vague spoilers for Captain America: the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everlasting

**Author's Note:**

> Whether this is slash or gen is entirely open to interpretation, so I tagged for both. :)

_1\. Steve cannot forget._

 

Steve cannot forget. The serum enhanced his memory like it did everything else. Nothing can be done for the childhood memories—the soap and lavender scent of his mother, or the rheumy tint to her eyes—because those were _before_ the serum. The bright delirium of fever in his head and TB in his lungs are faded memories, and those he is glad to forget.

But everything after the serum is in bright, vivid colour, even for those he _wants_ to forget. The stretch of cotton across his too-broad shoulders. The tang of cold air, clean and sharp. The shuddering shock of a shell, the memory of smell. The corpses scattered in the coral sands, the canvas bag burials at sea.

The connections between neurons and synapses are clear and unaffected by his years in the ice, and he remembers everything from the skew of Dum Dum’s bowler hat to the brand of cigarettes Morita preferred to the exact, particular pitch of Bucky’s scream as he fell from the train.

Steve remembers enough for ten men, and he wishes he can forget.

 

_2\. Bucky cannot remember._

 

Bucky cannot remember. He understands that Steve is telling the truth, and he has used his (considerable, and then used Tony’s too) resources to verify Steve’s account of what had happened to him, and what has happened since.

But he can no more remember his past than he can remember the taste of sugar. He knows of fifteen ways to one-handedly break a clavicle, twelve angles to ricochet a shot through a crowd, and a hundred different ways to kill a man and all of that comes as naturally to him as breathing. He remembers the mouth guard, the machine—remembers in the sense that he knows what it does and how he should act upon seeing it, but he cannot say when he first saw it or when it was first used on him. He knows of caches of weapons and stashes of tools and a faded face of the man he took orders from. Whether any of that knowledge is _his_ or just programmed into him he cannot say.

He does not remember to eat (he supposes his previous missions never lasted long enough for it to matter). He does not remember to sleep, or to use the bathroom, or to take a shower. He understands the concepts and how they work, they just never occur to him as things to do.

Steve says, “remember when…” and he doesn’t, and he turns away from Steve’s crestfallen look.

Steve remembers. Steve remembers for both of them, and that’ll just have to be enough.

 

_3\. Steve cannot die._

 

Steve cannot die. Well, that’s an exaggeration—empty a mag through his brain or drop him off the Empire State (without his shield) and he’ll be a goner like anyone else. But short of that, he’ll live a ridiculously long life thanks to the super soldier serum—it enhanced his lifespan too. Steve is expected to live out his first century looking like a man in his prime, and will not show signs of actual middle age until well into his _second century_.

If he does not die a premature death (how likely is that, given his career choice?) he will easily outlive them all, save for Thor (the god) and Bruce (who suffers—yes, suffers—a similar fate).

It is a truth he avoids thinking about, because Tony would suggest digitizing everyone a la Zola and Bruce would withdraw into himself and Thor would mumble something about goodness is fleeting but bright.

Steve cannot die naturally—at least not for a very long time—and he will not cause his own death.

But what he doesn’t say is that the deaths of those around him will kill him long before he actually breathes his last.

 

_4\. Bucky cannot live._

 

Bucky cannot live without Steve. Steve can protest and plead until the cows come home, but Steve’s all he’s got. He is a man hollowed out of his humanity and memories and everything that makes him human; they shaped the last century, the two of them, only Steve was the shining epitome of goodness and justice while he was a tall tale told to politicians and children, the Grim Reaper made into flesh and metal.

Bucky cannot live without Steve, and if Steve dies before he does he’ll chase down the bastard that did it and empty a mag into his skull, saving the last shot for himself. Even if Steve dies of accidental causes Bucky’ll still follow him with a bullet between his own eyes. Bucky will follow Steve in life and in death, to the depths of hell and the other side of the world, if that’s what it takes—because nothing, _nothing_ matters without Steve.

But, most likely, Bucky will leave first, leave before he ever remembers living, and all he will take with him to his grave is the knowledge that he keeps hurting Steve, in life and in death.

 

_5\. “Put me on ice.”_

 

“Put me on ice,” Bucky demands, and Tony just about falls out of his seat.

“Whoa, wait, hold up, I thought _on ice_ was what _caused_ everything in the first place,” Tony shoots back, staring at him with mingled suspicion and horror.

Bucky slams his metal fist down on the nearest table; a nearby bot squeaks in terror.

“You don’t understand,” and that is soft at least. “Steve’s all I got,” and isn’t that ironic and a change of pace, since back then Steve was (supposedly) the one saying he had nothing at all? “I’m 29 and 99 and I might as well have been born _today_ for all I remember of it, except there’s blood on my hands 70 years old and I don’t remember _that_ either. I’ve got decades to live, _tens_ of decades if I do it right.”

“So…what,” Tony says skeptically, “you want to go back on ice for eight hours a night to catch up to Steve’s immortality?”

“I want to _live_ ,” Bucky snarls, except not really, because he can’t think of anything he deserves less. Steve’s always telling him that he has earned that much (he thinks he has earned nothing at all). But he doesn’t want Steve to bury another friend when he’s already lost so much.

And if he’s honest, he _does_ want to live, at least a little, to find out what it is about this world that Steve thinks is worth saving.

“Wouldn’t you want to try living,” he presses, “if it means you won’t leave someone behind?”

Tony is silent, but he looks up at the ceiling at the AI he loves so much, and Bucky thinks he might understand.

 

When Steve finds out, he completely _loses his shit_ and they have the most spectacular row in the history of ever, worse than all of the ones in the 40s put together (not that he can remember any of them). Steve yells and he pleads and _no, Buck_ , argues that Bucky’s lived through so much cold and harshness and he’ll be _damned_ if he lets _anyone_ —even Bucky himself—do this for a ridiculous few (it isn’t a few) extra years.

They almost come to blows over it. In the end, it isn’t Steve’s call.

Steve does not speak to Tony for three months.

 

Being on ice makes him vulnerable. Every time Bucky enters the cryo-chamber he sets a timer; if need be, JARVIS is able to terminate the stasis early. But when he is in the chamber he is dead to the world; if Red Skull taps his coffin he would not know. Even if he wakes, it takes at least six minutes for his muscles to thaw and his head to un-fog; anyone can kill him ten times over.

Steve drags a bed into the stasis room. Bucky hates being watched, hates for anyone to see his weakness, but this is for Steve’s comfort rather than his.

“You don’t have to do this,” Steve says, soft and pleading, one hand around Bucky’s shoulder. He says this every morning, every time.

Bucky leans his still-fogged head on Steve’s shoulder and doesn’t answer.

It takes Bucky a month to notice the bags under Steve’s eyes, his constantly-exhausted expression, the haunted pallor of his face, all of which Steve determinedly tries to hide. Bucky thinks his observation skills have slipped.

“You can’t sleep in here, can you?” It isn’t a question.

Steve’s guilt is palpable even as he straightens stubbornly on the bed. Around them, the machinery hums.

Bucky breathes hard through his nose.

“Get out,” he says, pointing to the door with his metal hand. He understands why, is grateful for it, but his frustration makes his voice as cold and hard as his soon-to-be-frozen face. “ _Go sleep._ ”

Steve leaves. The room feels colder.

Bucky goes to sleep. The damp in his eyes freezes over.

 

Bucky freezes every night in a chamber of ice. But every night, that’s eight (or five, or two, or whatever) hours he could’ve lost to nothing at all. It is a poor approximation to the serum, to Erskine’s potion and the goodness that carries Steve on, but between Zola’s chemical soup that kept him alive and conserving what hours he can, this is the best he’s got.

And ten, twenty, thirty years down the line, when those around them have turned old and grey and drained of life, Steve leans his head on Bucky’s still-solid shoulder and cries.

 

_I’m with you ’til the end of the line._


End file.
